


Life Sickens More Than Disease

by scarletalphabet



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Doctor Who References, Episode Tag, F/M, Gen, Science, Show Context FitzSimmons, Young Wizards References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletalphabet/pseuds/scarletalphabet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons stays by a comatose Fitz's bedside, unable to bear the thought that he might be aware of his surroundings yet alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Sickens More Than Disease

**Author's Note:**

> Aligned with the details of the show in terms of FitzSimmons as a ship. Title is from the below quote. Newspaper bits from the Washington Post the day I started this. The Popular Science bits come from their website. The quoted passage later on is from So You Want to be a Wizard by Diane Duane. She's awesome and I highly recommend her books if you like sci-fi and/or fantasy.

  _You fall into my arms._

_You are the good gift of destruction's path,_

_When life sickens more than disease_

_And boldness is the root of beauty_

_Which draws us together._

-Boris Pasternak

 

Simmons looked up from the newspaper that someone had just fetched from a mini-mart on a supply run. Sure they had computers and phones and tablets, but there was something soothing about reading from paper pages. As long as she kept it away from the pitcher of water perched on the bedside table, the paper would endure until long after anyone would have the slightest bit of interest in it. She shook her head, feeling herself sliding down a morbid philosophical path again. While the handful of studies that she had read about coma patients were evenly split about whether or not they were aware of what was happening around them, she couldn't bear the thought that Fitz would be trapped alone in silence. Further research would undoubtedly settle the question, but she had made a conscious decision to avoid digging into all of the medical minutiae that could possible relate to Fitz's condition. As helpless as she felt, she knew that losing herself to Google and medical journals wouldn't help anyone. She fidgeted at being stuck in the tantalizing position of being just outside the realm of experts, but SHIELD doctors were far better placed than she to help him live and wake. A month ago she would have considered herself the world's foremost expert on one Leopold Fitz, but after his declaration the other day...she didn't know anymore.

“Let's see what's been happening outside,” she proclaimed, as much a distraction for herself as a way to include Fitz. Pulling the paper from its bag she flipped it over to headline. The front of the paper was dominated by a full color picture of protestors throwing a couch at a window. “The worst mining disaster in Turkey's history.” Simmons murmured, taking in the faces twisted with grief and anger. “Perhaps something else then.” Her eyes roved down the page until she caught sight of another story. “Rightist party bashes Europe, and Britons cheer,” she read to Fitz. “Ah, home. Racists fighting other racists for not being racist enough. Or maybe too much?” She let the newspaper fall to her lap and took a deep breath, letting her eyes close and her head loll back on her slack shoulders. The newspaper fell to the floor with a soft thump, but she didn't bother fetching it. It was tempting to fall asleep right there, unsuited though the chair was to a nap. When the rest of the team had arrived Coulson had tried to tell her to take it easy and rest, knowing that she was not yet recovered herself, but she had refused point blank. She had felt a slight twinge of mortification when told that he was the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and she had realized that she'd in effect refused a Director's orders, but it had been swept away in renewed concern for Fitz. Coulson had understood, and it hadn't been an order anyhow.

The absolute stillness of the room, silent but for the beep of monitors and the sound of breathing made the sound of footsteps at the door as loud as drumbeats. One hand knocked against the metal door frame. “How's he doing?” Skye called quietly.

Simmons shrugged. “No change,” she replied, not bothering to turn around. “You can come in if you like. Certainly won't hurt.”

Skye's footsteps grew louder until she came into view, heading for a chair on the other side of Fitz's bed. She picked up the newspaper from where it had fallen, and placed it on the table. “Good read?” she asked, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. In any other scenario Simmons would note how her skewed posture screamed discomfort, but feeling nervous and out of sorts hardly seemed noteworthy anymore.

“Not really,” Simmons said. “I just wanted—” She blushed, realizing how silly she would sound if she told Skye that she didn't want Fitz to be alone.

“Wanted what?” Skye pressed, her smile inviting Simmons to continue. When she was met with more silence, she added, “Look Jemma, whatever you have to say what kind of asshole would I be for making fun of you right now?” She gestured over to Fitz. “I mean you saved the guy's life.”

The thought flashed through Simmons's mind that she wouldn't have been able to save Fitz's life if Ward hadn't saved hers first, but now didn't seem the time. “He's the one who got us out of there really,” she asserted, a sudden urge rising in her to make Fitz's crucial role known. “And if it wasn't for his idea of rigging the machine to put out a SHIELD signal we might've drowned still.”

“We can 'what if' till the cows come home,” Skye argued, “And believe me I've done a lot of that lately myself, but—”

“I didn't want him to be alone,” Simmons blurted out. Once she had made that initial statement the rest of the words came tumbling out in a rush of confidence. “I know that the science is a little iffy and it really depends on what kind of coma he's in and goodness knows if his brain is even intact enough to register what anyone's saying, but imagine how awful it would be to be trapped inside your own head.” She blinked back a tear and smiled down at Fitz, whose curly hair made his still features look particularly angelic. “I figured if I read to him, well it wouldn't hurt me at all but at least he might hear a friendly voice.” Simmons wasn't a particularly religious person, beyond the cultural elements of the Church of England that were inescapable from her youth, but she found herself mentally repeating what could be called little else than a directionless prayer. A prayer for the future that Fitz wake up as healthy as possible, but also a prayer for the present that no one question her dedication to remaining by Fitz's bedside. She was nowhere near ready to answer questions that she was hardly willing to ask herself. When Fitz was awake again, when she knew that Fitz was truly safe again, then maybe she could let herself think about less essential matters.

“Well don't stop on my account,” Skye asserted, her voice coming off as so ridiculously cheery that Simmons knew that Skye was doing it for her. “It wouldn't hurt me to catch up on the news.”

********

The next day found Simmons in the same place, having slept on the couch in a pair of old SHIELD sweats. Trip had brought her something for breakfast but had left shortly after, seeming unsure of where he fit in the scene. No one had yet suggested to Simmons that she ought to take a break from her vigil, but she knew that it was only a matter of time. She wondered who would draw the short straw for that particular task. Coulson had much more important matters to attend to. Skye had already been by, so perhaps she'd feel more at ease with coming again. Simmons snorted at the thought. Like she felt comfortable sitting here. No, no matter how she felt there was nowhere else she could be.

As she looked around the room her eyes fell on the small stack of books and Popular Science magazines, furnished by Trip from goodness knew where. Those seemed a more promising distraction than yesterday's newspaper. She flipped open the magazine on top, thumbing her way through the front pages to the first article. “The Mathematics Of Murder: Should A Robot Sacrifice Your Life To Save Two?” she read, eyebrows raising at the thought. “Hmm, robots driving cars. Well, we've seen that episode of Doctor Who and it did not end well.” She imagined Fitz adding comments in agreement or coming to the defense of well-crafted machines. “I suppose you'd say something about how if the programmer or engineer was careful enough it would be safe,” she continued, the corners of her mouth turning up as she could picture his glare. “I'd rather not risk it thanks.”

Simmons flipped to the next article. “Has The End Of The Banana Arrived?” she read, perking up at the biology article. “Ooo, a fungus!” She shook her head with sheepishness, feeling her face redden. “I shouldn't really get too excited, bananas are a vital element of the world economy. Not to mention your favorite monkeys. Of course the whole notion that monkeys are obsessed with bananas isn't entirely true. Monkeys who live near where bananas grow consider them a main food source, but that's hardly surprising. I'm sure you know that though.” She scanned the rest of the article, not finding it a great one to read aloud. “Third time's a charm,” she said, turning past the next few pages.

“Self-repairing plastic,” she stated, eyes quickly looking over the short article. “That sounds quite useful. And there's a TARDIS reference. Brilliant!” She shifted in the chair, settling in to share the article with Fitz. “Machines that can fix themselves are such staples in fantastic fiction,” she read, “That the concept has its own name at TV Tropes (the 'net's ultimate guide to fiction cliches): Self Healing Phlebotinum.” She paced her reading through the article, interspersing the words on the page with her commentary on how Fitz could modify the plastics and what uses S.H.I.E.L.D. could have for them.

The end of the article was punctuated by the sound of boots on the tiled floor. “You've got a good voice for that,” May said, walking to the foot of the hospital bed.

“Agent May!” Simmons called in surprise, not fully aware of May's presence despite her effort to not be sneaky. “Come to check on Fitz?”

May inclined her head. “In part,” she replied.

Simmons waited for May to continue, but she simply stood there and looked at Fitz. The steady beeps of medical machinery grew louder without words to drown them out. Simmons was hesitant to ascribe a specific emotion to May's face (though she knew full well that she experienced them), but the quiet intensity with which she looked at Fitz was unnerving.

“Have you given yourself a break yet?” May asked, still looking at Fitz.

“What?” Simmons responded, sure that May must be talking to her but confused nonetheless.

“You wouldn't be dishonoring him by focusing on what you need,” May told her. She turned her head to look at Simmons, warmth shining from behind her firm gaze. “I know that Triplett's been bringing you food, but have you been taking care of yourself?”

Simmons squirmed, knowing that May meant well but feeling the force of her scrutiny. Apparently she had drawn the short straw on this one, though she'd be a fool if she suggested that this visit was anything other than May's choice. “Well...” Simmons started, trailing off when she couldn't come up with anything to say.

“I won't badger you about it,” May said, “But if you want to take a shower, take a walk, or just get some air, any of us would be happy to step in.” She turned away from Simmons, clearly considering her part of the conversation over.

Simmons was grateful that she had turned away, if only for the privacy to think about her offer without her face betraying what she was feeling. She bit her lip, wrestling with the idea in her head. The fact that neither May nor Skye nor Triplett had so much as implied that she was stupid for spending all of her time by Fitz's bedside spoke volumes about how highly regarded Fitz was. May was clearly willing to take up her post herself, and if she could not surely one of the others would. She ran one hand through her hair, feeling how it lay limp against her head. It would be nice to take a shower and stretch her legs, and Fitz would want her to take care of herself. Perhaps this might even be one of those situations where once she was gone for a bit only then would Fitz wake up. “I think I will take you up on your offer,” she announced at last, not startling May in the slightest with her sudden outburst.

“I thought you might,” May replied, moving to sit in the chair opposite Simmons. “Take your time.”

Simmons nodded gratefully to May and slipped out of the room, sparing Fitz one last glance as she shut the door.

********

Simmons walked back to Fitz's room with a renewed sense of optimism and a large mug of tea. Slowing down and focusing on everyday things had been a great help to calm her nerves. The steady patter of the lukewarm water against her scalp, the smell of the shampoo (which she had noted with a distinct lack of amusement was branded as “hydra-licious”), the warmth of the mug of tea against her hands. She was confident that Fitz would wake up, and if he had to relearn how to walk and talk then she would fight for him to get the very best therapists. Knowing Coulson though, that wouldn't be much of a fight.

Hearing words drifting out of the room made Simmons stop short with her free hand on the door handle. From the sound of it, May had not only taken up her vigil but also her position of reading to Fitz. “In Life's name and for Life's sake,” May read, “I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, are threatened. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so—till Universe's end.”

Simmons beamed even brighter at the words. Apparently hidden in the stack of books had been a book belong to one of Fitz's favorite series. He had recommended it to her on the basis of its scientific approach to magic, but she had never taken to it quite as much as he had. The familiar words drew her back into the room, eager to feel a part of that connection again.

Her re-entrance to the room, quiet though it was, nevertheless caused enough noise to make May stop and look up. Upon seeing who it was she closed the book and placed it down on the table. May cast an appraising glance up and down Simmons's body, and declared, “Good.” Her simple smile, though not as wide as Simmons's own grin a moment earlier, was just as genuine.

“Thank you,” Simmons said, hoping that May understood the implied gratitude that she couldn't quite speak. Thank you for picking up on my silly idea that Fitz shouldn't be left in silence. Thank you for not saying anything. Thank you for saying what I needed to hear.

May nodded, seeming to catch on to at least one of those undercurrents. She opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out a strange sound interrupted them.

“Jhh—”

Simmons dropped her mug of tea and whirled around to Fitz. “Fitz?” she called, shock pitching her voice up even higher.

Silence.

May snatched up the walkie talkie that the doctor had provided (no fancy hospital intercoms here) and barked two short sentences.

Simmons didn't catch the details of what she said as the pain of dropping the mug on her foot roared to life. At least the tea seeping into her shoe wasn't hot anymore. By the time that she was able to refocus on the situation, a doctor was striding in.

“He's awake,” May told the doctor. “Or he was.”

“The signs?” the doctor asked, matching her businesslike tone as he bent over the bed to check on Fitz.

“He spoke,” Simmons said, glancing at the unfamiliar doctor's name badge. “Dr. John Smith. Are you serious?” Her sidelong glance of disbelief gave way to the urgency of finding out what was going on with Fitz. “Well he tried to speak. More of a noise really.”

“He was trying to say your name,” May explained. “Jemma.” For the first time since the rest of the team had arrived, Simmons felt as if she was being judged. May's inquisitive stare conveyed her suspicion that something beyond the usual library of FitzSimmons antics was going on, though she was more curious than stern.

“Could be,” Simmons agreed, steadfastly avoiding May's gaze. “Sounded a bit like a soft j sound.”

“It's a great sign that he said anything at all,” Doctor Smith said, standing back up from his examination. “Recovery from comas is usually gradual, with patients becoming more and more aware over time. They may be awake and alert for only a few minutes the first day, but gradually stay awake for longer and longer periods.” He smiled reassuringly at the pair of them. “Combined with his Glasgow score, the fact that he was trying to speak bodes well for his future. He will likely need some type of therapy, but I think that I can speak for all of us left at S.H.I.E.L.D. when I say that we will make sure that he has the very best.”

Simmons nodded in understanding. On the Bus they had often felt so isolated from the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. that it was hard to feel the support network behind them. The Hydra reveal had shaken that up even more so she was still getting used to the concept again.

“We'll be checking on him more often now that he's coming out of it,” Doctor Smith told them. “But that's all we can do until he's more alert.” When neither May nor Simmons voiced any questions he took his leave.

May stood up to follow him but paused at the door. She gave Simmons one last glance, one last invitation to share if she so desired. Simmons, well aware of what was going unsaid, smiled and shook her head. May's inquiries (and the questions that were sure to come from the others) could wait. Fitz might not even remember what he felt or what he had said in the container. Though her mind couldn't help but wander to the tangle of her own emotions when she wasn't keeping busy, there was no reason to involve anyone else. When Fitz was good and ready, however long it took, then they could talk. Until then she would remain the Simmons to his Fitz.

 


End file.
